And Talk About The Weather
by BienSeant
Summary: Apocalypse has been thwarted. Behind a bungalow, two women are chatting over tea. In London Soho, an angel and a demon are figuring out what it means to be on their own side. Things happen. But it's ok. Aziraphale/Crowley.
1. Something Happens

It was a nice, sunny afternoon in June and Anathema Device was chatting with Madame Tracy over a cup of tea in the latter's garden. Neither Anathema nor Newt were really fond of visiting retired Sergeant Shadwell, whose peculiar behavior hadn't changed that much since moving to the countryside. But they kind of had the feeling they owed him for something or another, and Madame Tracy was a pearl, so they visited anyway. As usual, Newt was left with his former officer as the girls were enjoying their girly time behind the bungalow. Anathema Device and Madame Tracy had many topics they liked to discuss. At the moment, they were exchanging news of shared acquaintances.

"Aziraphale does call from time to time. Such a sweet gentleman, I have been trying to get Mr S. to stop calling him 'southern pansy' for weeks now, but, you know, a man has to have his little quirks..."

Anathema frowned, but didn't interrupt.

"Anyway, Aziraphale is doing just fine in that bookshop of his, and from what he says, Mr Crowley is very well to."

And then, leaning forward in confidence: "He always tells me that Crowley says hello, now I don't want to speak ill of anyone, but I'm pretty sure Mr Crowley doesn't really say that."

Anathema smiled, but her mind was distracted.

"I wonder," she said, "what they are to eachother."

To which Madame Tracy answered in a high pitched voice: "Oh, they're... I guess they're their own thing."

Madame Tracy was a very tactful woman, very delicate and open-minded (that's the least it would take to fancy the neighbour who had spend half his life calling you hideous biblical names) who was used to expressing herself in few words. What Madame Tracy meant was: "I think it's none of our business, and it would certainly not be polite to assume anything, and I may or may not have information on that particular matter since I shared my body and mind with the angel concerned, but it's not mine to share, much less to gossip about."

Stangely enough, Anathema understood all of it and immediately felt sheepish for asking. To her credit, she wasn't asking to judge or to gossip. She was merely curious and needed a distraction.

Anathema had burnt _Further Nice and Accurate Prophesies Of Agnes Nutter Concerning The World That Is To Come, Ye Saga Continueth_, yet she didn't feel any freer than before and was beginning to wonder if it hadn't something to do with her boyfriend. Every sensible woman experiences this discomfort at some point. Anathema was a sensible woman but wasn't at ease with the idea yet, so the hypothetical shenanigans of a rogue angel and an equally rogue demon were a very useful and welcome distraction.

This is why, even she felt bad about being intrusive, she wasn't quite ready to move on with the discussion. So, she kept asking.

"Do you think they are...?"

"I have absolutely no idea..." answered Madame Tracy.

They kept quiet for a while, both of them blushing, before they broke into giggles and finally dropped the subject.

Anathema didn't ask anything about it ever again, but it was an interesting question. Which we're going to try and answer in a very respectful, non-intrusive way.

Did Azirpahale and Crowley love eachother?

In short, yes, but we are trying to be thourough and methodical here.

Aziraphale was an angel. Angels did love. It was in the job description. Most of them had a quite detached, negligent definition of the concept, but Aziraphale had himself a very inclusive notion of it. He just tried to genuinely love everything in Creation. He'd mostly succeded so far, but after living among the mortals, he started showing... preferences. Things he liked and things he didn't like that much, things that made him more comfortable, that brought him more joy, more pleasure, and things that – God help him! – he could barely stand. All of it was most irregular, most un-angelic of him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. After all, who didn't have favorites?

Speaking of favorites, there wasn't much that Aziraphale enjoyed more than the company of his demon friend Crowley. He had his reasons. For starters, Crowley had been consistently nice to him for about 6000 years. Very considerate. Very fun to be around. Very intense. Never declined an invitation. Had taste. Good taste you could even say, if by "good" you meant something in the vicinity of "challenging". He had equally good ideas. Asked good questions. Crowley had even saved him a couple of times, and probably there were a few more occurrences that the angel wasn't aware of. He'd saved Aziraphale's books. He knew what they meant to him. He was the only one Aziraphale could really talk to. The only one who got it. Humans couldn't, they were too mortal. Other angels didn't and were too perfect to try.

There were a lot of things to love about Crowley, even his feisty manners were refreshing, and it wasn't surprising, really, that the angel's feelings had grown into something, well... friendly.

Deep down, Aziraphale knew all that. Deep down, under layers and layers of rightousness and denial, he could be very open-minded. He had accepted the Arrangement after a while, and the necessity of stopping the Apocalypse. He just needed time. And the occasional food bribe. And sometimes loads of alcohol.

Crowley was a demon. Some might say that demons couldn't love. Surely, if by "love" you meant "utter, deepest, purest affection for another being and eternal, intangible, selfless acceptance of them", demons couldn't love. But let's be honest. No one loves like that. No human, no angel, no anything (except maybe vampires, teenage girls and chosen ones' mothers; God has to forgive them, they don't know what they're doing). But attachment, lust, need, care even: those a flawed fallen angel could very much do. That's probably not something a demon should do, nor something most demons would do, but Crowley wasn't like most demons.

He'd always had questions, from "are you sure this really is a good thing?" to "hypocrite much, angel, being sorry when talking about eating ducks in front of other ducks, but not when actually eating them?". He wasn't one to not ask about what was happening, and why and how, or not to judge when it did.

So there he was, full of spite and questions and definitely capable of pining, and next to him was this angel, so sweetly oblivious of his own flaws and so very amusing. With not an ounce of contempt in his body. Crowley had persuaded the angel they should help each other out; after all he did have better things to do than his job. And then the rescues had happened, not to mention the meals and the drinks (so many of them!), and before he knew it he was caring. Far too much for his own sake.

He didn't say anything, not until the end of the world at least. He had his reasons. The first of them being the difference between a rude note and being irremediably smashed into tiny fuming bits. Demons were not merciful creatures. Someone had to take care of his and the angel's safety.

Simply put, we have:

Aziraphale, a self-indulgent hedonist, genuinely caring, reluctant to change but certainly not immune to it.

Crowley and his challenging questions, well aware of how he liked things and firmly set on keeping anything emotional to himself.

And they loved eachother.

But that does not tell us anything about the specifics of their relationship, and it definitely reveals nothing about why Anathema and Madame Tracy were blushing behind the bungalow.

In London's Soho, an angel and a demon were drinking (again) in the back room of a bookshop. Now that they had given quite a fright to their respective colleagues in Heaven and Hell, they had some time to enjoy themselves. There were no more worries about "doing the right thing" or "getting caught fraternising", only the endless conversations and the also endless list of little restaurants to try. Aziraphale was sitting in his favorite chair and Crowley was melting into the couch. Suddenly, something happened, which made Aziraphale very uncomfortable, and Crowley wasn't inebriated enough to not notice.

"You alright, angel?" (Keep in mind how Crowley sounds, both sharp and slurring, and don't ever mistake aloofness for tenderness.)

"Yes – no, I... it doesn't matter."

This was, unfortunately, not the kind of answer Crowley could just let go. Aziraphale should have known.

"Ah, come on, don't be like that. What's eating you?"

"Crowley, just – don't... It's nothing, really..."

The demon was frowning and pouting already.

"You don't trust me. After all we've been through, you still don't trust me. You're really hurting my feelings, you know tha–"

"Oh for Heaven's sake, Crowley! Fine!" Aziraphale finally yelled in surrender. "If you're so eager to know, it's... I... That would be my libido, I guess."

The angel was expecting an eternity of mockery, but it never came. On the couch, his friend was unusually still.

"Wasn't aware you had any," Crowley said flatly.

"Well, I do." Aziraphale was trying his best to stay dignified. "Now you know. I hope you're happy."

"Nah, happy's not the word I'd use" said Crowley with a grimace.

Aziraphale shot him an indignant glare.

"You were the one to ask! And it's not my fault. Well, I have to admit I do have an inclination for... the pleasures of the flesh, but–"

"Please don't. Don't elaborate."

"But not that one, I'd never... It was sharing a body with Madame Tracy. She was a... _fille de joie_, you know. I have seen some... scabrous glimpses..."

"Oh I really didn't want to know that."

"The lady had quite a dissolute life. And since then, I have found myself, well, you could say 'intrigued'."

They was another silence. The angel couldn't meet the demon's eyes and Crowley was not complaining about it.

"Well then," the demon ended saying, "I deeply regret asking, my apologies. Let's talk about something else."

But they didn't. Instead, Aziraphale was doing the thing with his eyes.

"Oh no, don't look at me like that! Why on earth are you looking at me like that?"

The angel seemed really desperate.

"I don't know what to do," he pleaded.

"And _I_ would?" Crowley shrieked.

"Well, yes! You're a demon, it... It's supposed to be your department!"

"No, it's not! I mess with ring roads and phone networks, remember?"

"Oh. I'm sorry I assumed... I just thought that maybe you'd–"

Aziraphale couldn't find his words and was trying to finish his phrase with his hands. Crowley tilted his head.

"Are you hitting on me?" The question seemed genuine enough and Aziraphale eyes widened.

"What – no! Of course not!" He answered automatically. And then realisation hit him. "Am I? Oh God. I'm so, so sorry, dear, I never meant... You have to know I'd never... coerce you into doing something you wouldn't..."

Seeing his friend faltering and fidgeting like that put a gentle smile on Crowley's face.

"Stop panicking, angel, you're not 'coercing' me into anything."

Relief flashed on the angel's face. It seemed the right moment to get up and refill their glasses.

It had been a big anouncement. They both needed a minute to recover, Crowley from learning the news, and Aziraphale from disclosing it. They made a funny picture: a demon leanding against a wall and an angel in an armchair, sipping their drinks quietly and going to great lengths to avoid eye contact.

"So," Crowley asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably "You're... intrigued?"

"I'm afraid so," was the answer.

The demon waited a little before speaking again.

"And you're considering... things."

"Yes," Azirpahale said slowly.

"With me?"

"Well, only if you wanted-" the angel began, breaking the unspoken agreement to not look at each other.

"Yeah, got that one, it's sweet. But, seriously, why me?"

"It's not like there is anybody else."

A pained expression appeared on Crowley's face.

"You do know that's a terrible pick-up line, don't you?"

"I didn't mean it like that! You're my friend."

"Not sure we have the same definition of fr–"

"Could you for once just listen?" Aziraphale shouted in exasperation. He was mortified for raising his voice, but at least he managed to silence the demon. He continued in a much gentler tone: "What I meant is... I like you, and I trust you, and there's no one in the universe I trust or like as much. And I find you... rather dashing."

Aziraphale was blushing. The declaration felt both like baring his very soul and stating the obvious and he wasn't sure how to feel about it.

Crowley coughed a little.

"That's... nice," he said.

"Don't make fun of me, Crowley."

"I'm not."

Aziraphale looked for any sign of irony, but Crowley was facing away again, so he couldn't be sure.

"Anyway," he said, "I don't want to inconvenience you, so there's no need to discuss it any further."

He sipped at his drink, looking pleased with himself for bringing the topic to an end (a temporary end only, they clearly weren't done with it, but an angel is entitled to dream). This time, they even managed to talk about something else.

A few hours later, they were getting tipsy. It would be more accurate to say that the number of empty bottles had tripled, but they had both adopted the human habit of underestimating their degree of intoxication. They also were in the middle of a heated argument about sloths.

"Oh, now _I_'m mean?" Crowley was laughing. "_I_ didn't make them this way! S'not my fault they are Nature's biggest joke! Birds even use them as target practice for their young!"

"You're right, it's heart-rent... hard-rend... really sad," Aziraphale said.

To Crowley it wasn't only sad, it was also unbelievable. How these poor things could have ever made it onto Noah's ark was beyond his comprehension. Even the evolutionary theory had no explanation for them! It just seemed cruel of the Almighty. He was so lost in his speech that he almost didn't hear when the angel said, completely out of nowhere:

"I can't believe you never did anything."

"What?"

"I said," Aziraphale repeated, his promise to not bring the matter again completely forgoten, "I can't believe you never did anything, you know... 'sinful'. With all the swaying and the hips..."

The angel had not meant to mutter the last part, but he had no control over his mouth at the moment, and Crowley heard it loud and clear.

"That's rich, coming from you!" The demon was decidedly in the mood for more bickering. "As I recall, you were the one getting all chummy with Wilde for decades and never having a clue! But five minutes with an old scrubber and–"

"Crowley!" Azirpahale interrupted in shock, "Madame Tracy is a very nice lady. She's been a huge help and deserves no less than our utmost respect. And I don't understand what you said about Oscar, I – Oh. No, I get it. I totally get your point, now. Oh my... That does explain a lot, doesn't it?"

"I bet it does."

Aziraphale shook his head in realisation and Crowley smirked, happy he was able to deflect the conversation. They drank and talked the night away, until they were completely _smashed_, and too far gone to deny it anymore.

"Ok, let's do this," Crowley said, jumping suddenly on his feet and miraculously keeping balance.

"Do what again, dear?"

Crowley planted himself in front of Aziraphale's chair and bent over him. They were both stinking of alcohol and the tension was getting heady.

"That... The thing – the sex thing."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide.

"What, now? But should'n – I'm pretty sure we should... do something else. You know, first..."

"Like what?"

"Mnot... No idea. Kissing?"

"You just have to suck the fun out of everything, don't you?"

Crowley kneeled between Aziraphale's legs, which was another risky move considering his drunken state, but he was on a roll.

"It seems easy enough," he mumbled for reassurance. "Pretty sure the taste's awful but, hey, you never know 'til you try, right?"

He put his hands on Aziraphale's legs and the angel finally realised what was happening.

"Crowley, what are you – No!"

The demon stepped back immediately and fell ungracefully backwards.

"Fuck."

They didn't move for a while. This was more than awkward, it was painful. It was terrible.

"Maybe," the angel said, "maybe we ought to sober up."

Crowley only nodded. Aziraphale purged all the alcohol out of his system. When his head was clear again, except for the minor ache and bad taste, he saw that Crowley was back on the couch, knobbly elbows on knobbly knees, holding his head in his hands.

"Are you alright, dear?" the angel asked.

"Dunno." the demon sounded sober, but he didn't sound fine. Aziraphale felt an urge to get closer and comfort his friend, but it would probably just make things worse.

"I am sorry," the angel said instead, "It looks like I ruined the evening."

Crowley could have pointed out that the evening was long over. He didn't.

"You souldn't be. S'not your fault."

They both heard the unspoken "it was mine". Aziraphale sighed.

"What you did was... disturbing, but I'm fine. Please don't start blaming yourself?"

Crowley lifted up his head and nodded again. "Still ashamed, though. Don't know what came over me."

Aziraphale wanted to make a soft joke about the alcohol, but he felt anything he would try would fall flat.

"Did you really want it?" he asked.

"Not really, I just – It's like it was just going to stay there and fester unless we did something about it. So I did something. Seemed easier with the alcohol. I shouldn't have."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale sighed. "Nothing has to be done. I need you to understand that."

"Yeah. But you do want something, right?"

"I'm not sure. Do you?"

"I... really don't know."

They stayed silent for a moment. Out of the window the dawn was beginning to break.

"Sun's up," Crowley said. "I should leave."

"Are you going to brood over tonight and take it out on those houseplants of yours?" asked the angel.

"I don't brood." Crowley was sounding a bit more like himslef. "And I don't take anything out on my plants. They know the rules and they know what happens when rules are broken."

Aziraphale still didn't seemed convinced. Crowley rolled his eyes before putting on his glasses.

"I'm fine, angel. Stop fussing." Then he sighed and gave up the fight. "Well. Since it's morning, I guess we could have breakfast somewhere before I go home."

The angel beamed.

"What a marvellous idea, dear! I know just the place!"

They got up, adjusted their clothes and went out into the sun. Aziraphale was going into the details of the last meal he had at the café; Crowley was pretending to not be interested. It felt like a pretty good start to a new day.


	2. System Of Touch

Chapter 2: System Of Touch

Two months later, one year exactly since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Anathema was throwing a party at her cottage in Tadfield. She was prepared. She had tea, sodas, smoothies, and lots of sweets, as one can expect from a witch (the sweets, not the smoothies. Maybe the smoothies too, now we're thinking of it). She had bought one cooking book entirely about cheesecakes and several others about cakes and pastries more generally and had been practising different recipes for weeks. She had asked her neighbors how to make good english tea.

Everybody who had been at the airbase was invited. The Them were present, of course, as were Adam's mom and dad, the Youngs. She had welcomed Madame Tracy with glee. Mr Shadwell was invited as well, even if his part in throwing off the Apocalypse only consisted in holding a gun without using it and insulting the lady. She also had invited Azirphale and Crowley. She hadn't quite understood what they had done, but they had made the annoying other angel and demon leave, and they seemed to have had a mysterious supernatural influence on the event. And Anathema wanted to see them.

Newt was there, too. Of course, he was, they had lived together for a year now. But every now and then, she had moments when she couldn't remember why or how (these moments were the worst; she didn't recognise her life, didn't recognise her home, she just wanted to throw object around and yell at everyone).

Newt had moved the table and chairs outside so they could enjoy the sun. As it goes when partying in the middle of a summer day, all ages represented, the party wasn't unified. They were spending the afternoon in little groups of two to four. Sometimes one.

The children were playing nicely, engrossed in Adam's latest strange story. Madame Tracy and Aziraphale were chatting over their tea and slices of cake in the garden chairs. She couldn't hear what they were saying but it looked hilarious. Mr Young was listening politely to yet another rambling speech from Mr Shadwell. Mrs Young was discussing something with Newt. From the word "children" and the deep blush on her boyfriend's face, Anathema knew it wasn't a conversation she wanted to be a part of. So, she retreated to the table were the drinks were. Crowley was lying in the longchair nearby, basking in the sun. He was so still she thought he was asleep, and with the sunglasses on, she couldn't check.

She jumped when he opened his mouth.

"Need something, bookgirl?"

"N-no," she answered, "Just... topping up my lemonade."

"Don't be afraid," said the demon as he sat up, "I don't bite on Sundays."

Anathema wasn't sure if she found that funny and even if she had known, she would have no idea how to respond.

"Do you want anything?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

Maybe she ought to move and let him alone, she thought. She wasn't at ease with people in general, and Crowley was even harder to read than the average person. She was probably annoying him.

"You look like something's on your mind," he said then.

Anathema looked at the demon. Was he embarrassed too? Or was he just making simple conversation? Did he feel like he had to fill in the silence? Was he really interested?

"I dont know," she said, "I thought it would be nice to have everyone around, but I don't think I'm good at hosting. I can't tell if I'm doing it right. I feel I'm in way over my head and I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

"Too bad your great-great-great grandmother didn't write any more prophesies, about the after, you know."

"Oh, she did," Anathema answered matter-of-factly, "but I burned it."

"You did?" The demon was surprised. "Don't ever tell Aziraphale. It would be Alexandria all over again."

She could hear the roll of his eyes in his voice, and she allowed herself to smile.

"But why burn it?" the demon asked a moment later. "I've been around for a while, and believe me, burning books never did anyone any good."

"I don't know," she said briskly. She was afraid for a moment that Crowley might take offense at her tone. He wasn't responsible for any of it, after all. But he didn't seem to mind. "I had never chosen anything for myself in my all life, and I thought it was finally over, but the other book came out, and..."

"And you didn't want to do what you were told anymore."

There was no judgement in the demon's voice, and it lifted a weight of her shoulders, even though she was certain burning the book had been a mistake.

Suddenly, Pepper was here, all bossy and inquisitive, and she wanted to talk very seriously about politics or something. Anathema tried to respond the best she could, and saw in the corner of her eyes Crowley hastily take a drink and escape, probably prentending to bring something to the angel. Anathema understood. Pepper had that kind of effect on people.

The afternoon passed very quickly, but to Anathema, it wasn't quickly enough. She felt useless and restless at the same time. She tried to keep checking that everyone was comfortable and had everything they needed, but most of the time she wasn't needed. She hadn't been able to socialize with anyone except Crowley and the children. She felt relieved when the guests began to leave. She liked them, of course, but having so many people to look after was exhausting.

The first to leave were Mr Shadwell and Madame Tracy, immediately after the old man said some not very nice thing to express his will to go home. Anathema watched with a pained smile as the couple rode off on their antique motorcycle. They would never be home before sunset. She promised herself to call in the morning to make sure they had arrived safely. Maybe next time she and Newt could convince them to take the train instead. Mr Shadwell wouldn't say anything if she paid for it. Then the children left,(they all had an hour to respect), quickly followed by Adam and his parents.

Anathema saw Aziraphale bending over the long chair to wake Crowley up (he had at some point returned to his selected place and really fallen asleep, with gentle nudges to his shoulder. The demon got to his feet like he hadn't slept at all, and could just have jumped in the Bentley without saying goodbye, but the angel insisted they thank their host.

"Well, Miss Device," Aziraphale said to Anathema, "thank you so much for inviting us. This was a lovely party. And the pastries were delightful."

Anathema wondered for an instant if Crowley had told the angel about her insecurities, and if the angel was complimenting her out of pity, but she waved the idea off. It didn't seem like any of them.

"Thank you for coming," she said, "It was nice having you around."

She could see Aziraphale wanted to talk some more, but Crowley interrupted him with a hand on his back.

"Come on, angel, she's tired, let's go."

Aziraphale grinned at her one last time.

"Goodbye, then, miss. I hope we will see each other soon."

Crowley just nodded to her when no one else was watching. Anathema didn't respond to any of their farewell, she hadn't enough presence of mind to do that. All she could do was stare at the demon's hand on the angel's lower back, the nickname "angel" resonating disturbingly in her head, and watch the Bentley disappear on the road. She didn't mean to notice every little gesture between them, every smile and kind look. It was probably rude of her to stare at them like that, but what could she do when those little details were crying for her attention and provoking all sort of emotions in her young heart? She never mentioned it except in the tentative questions that one time with Madame Tracy. It seemed like talking about what she felt for those two and their ineffable relationship would estrange her from everyone else, more surely than talking about seeing auras would, that it would mark her with a far more problematic category than just 'witch'.

"Are you alright?"

She jumped and blinked at her boyfriend's voice. Yes, Newt was still there.

"It's nothing," she said, "Let's tidy everything up."

The voyage in the Bentley was quiet, despite Crowley's disregard for speed limits. It had been a bit more than a month since things had... transpired between them. They hadn't talked about it again yet. There had been mentions, a few jokes about it, maybe, but they were still processing the whole thing.

Right now, Aziraphale felt self-conscious. It had been ages since the last time Crowley and him were in front of other people together. The angel remembered a few times when bystanders had mistaken them for a couple. He hadn't even reacted back then: humans couldn't possibly know what they were, there was no point in trying to explain it to them, and it did no harm. Now, he was wondering if the people at the party had thought that of them. He was wondering if it was a mistake at all. He was wondering if anyone was picturing them doing whatever couples did and felt a bit guilty about it. The picture itself wasn't unpleasant, but having no control of his mind, and attributing it to other people in the middle of a social event was very embarrassing and didn't feel gentlemanly at all.

He was happy Crowley had come, but it had been tricky. The demon just had to be... all over the place. His gangly self and skinny limbs, and the hair, and the jawline and bad postures. It had been a torture looking at him, and another torture altogether looking away. Aziraphale had felt himself blush all afternoon, and was hoping that no one had noticed it. The good news was that no one had paid attention. The bad news was Aziraphale couldn't convince himself of that.

Crowley, on the other hand, felt a lot more composed. He wasn't new to the concept of keeping things hidden (nor was Aziraphale, but tricking angels was far easier than tricking demons and didn't required that much skill), and he could just process things and think as much as he wanted in his bubble. And he didn't care what anyone thought of him, which helped a lot.

That being said, he could sense when Aziraphale was staring. He couldn't remember if the angel had stared like that in the past. Maybe not as often, maybe not as intensly. Or maybe he just hadn't seen it back then, wasn't expecting it. Crowley didn't think he was doing anything to earn himself that treatment, it was just him... being there. But he kind of liked the attention he was getting. It was nice to actually see with his own eyes (and not guess, presume, or induce) that Aziraphale cared. That he liked him. That he liked his looks. And the very narcicistic pleasure it gave him seemed to ease a pain he had been carrying since the beginning of time. For 6000 years, he had always thought that nothing he could do really mattered in that grand scheme of Hers (Crowley had heard somewhere that God was female. He didn't want to argue on pronouns, like they said: to each their own. But considering how women were treated in revealed religions, it did bring out the question of whose words those texts were, exactly). Now he knew that what he did mattered to at least one person, and wasn't that great?

Not to mention that seeing the angel blushing like that was priceless.

"Well," said Crowley, "it wasn't half as bad as I imagined."

"I told you so."

In fact, Crowley hadn't done much at the party. Mostly, he had laid on the long chair in the sunlight, eavesdropped on a few conversation and that was all. But everyone had just let him be, and maybe that was what made it a good afternoon. Aziraphale seemed very happy they came, and that also counted for something.

"I'm so glad I saw Madame Tracy again," the angel continued, "she's so nice, and very witty."

Crowley liked her, she was a fun one, with a mind of her own and just weird enough to be fascinating. Her only flaw, in the demon's opinion, was to be with Mr Shadwell. Since they had moved in together, she had changed her fluffy red hair and extravagant clothes for some blond curls and lame outfit. No use in saying that Crowley liked her old style better.

Shadwell was a tough subject between him and Aziraphale. They had discovered with great surprise that what they thought were two distinct secret organisations was in reality the same crazy old creep who had extorted their money on false pretense for decades. The angel and the demon hadn't earned that money, so much as create it from thin air, so they didn't really miss it. But it was humiliating all the same. Aziraphale was especially bashful about the compensation he had given to Sergeant Milk-Bottle's family and hoped that Crowley would never hear about it. Crowley himself felt quite foolish to have thought that the man could be of any use and prefered to avoid the entire subject. But the old creep lived now with Madame Tracy, one of Aziraphale's favorite humans, and sometimes they just couldn't ignore his existence. Aziraphale was pretty settled on the matter: Madame Tracy had chosen this man and they had to respect her decision. Crowley didn't agree on the principle, and tried from time to time to make the angel crack and spill what he really thought of Shadwell. He hadn't suceeded so far, but he was a determined demon.

"Is it true," he said casually, "that Madame Tracy paid for the entire thing? The bungalow, the land, all by herself?"

"I think so," the angel answered. "She often tells me how broke Mr S. is."

"How so? After all the money we gave him?"

"Maybe the rent of his flat was just that expensive?"

Aziraphale response sounded really naive, but the truth was Crowley had absolutely no idea how expensive a human life could be. He'd never thought of counting the money he miracled. Right now, though, he didn't want to concede the point.

"Or maybe he's a greedy old drunk."

"Crowley!"

"What?" he said, staring at the angel, "don't say you never thought of it. I know you don't like him."

"The road, Crowley, look at the road!" shouted Azirphale while grabbing his arm.

Crowley did and managed to keep them from crashing in a field at the very last moment.

"How many times have I asked you to drive slower! You'll get us both discorporated."

"Relax, angel, that wasn't even close."

Crowley was pretty confident in his driving skills. But at he moment, he had trouble concentrating on the road. Aziraphale's panicked hand on his arm had sent a jolt through his whole body. But the angel seemed totally oblivious to it. Like earlier in Tadfield, when Crowley had touched Aziraphale's back. It had felt so daring but the angel hadn't even noticed. It shouldn't have affected Crowley that much, right? They had touched before. They must have, he was sure of it. They had stood so many times in each other's space, sometimes so very close... Why couldn't he remember a time? Oh yes. He had pined him against a wall. Not the kind of casual example he was aiming for. Quite the opposite, actually. So much tension. He had almost forgotten he had done that. Another embarrassing moment to bury deep in his memory never to dig up. Was it really the only time he had touched the angel? Seemed so.

Azirpahale put the _Very Best Of The Velvet Underground_ in the CD player. "Sweet Jane" began and ended without a single reaction from the angel.

"I told you you wouldn't like it," Crowley said.

"I. No, I... It's not my thing. Obviously. But I want to hear it."

The demon shrugged his shoulders. The angel was curious about new things, now. Good for him. The compilation went on with no more interruption. They rode peacefully, and when they arrived in London, night had fallen.

"Do I let you at your shop?" asked Crowley stopping at a red light. As the answer was slow to come, he added "You could come over. If you like."

"Yes," said Aziraphale, "I would like that."

Crowley parked the Bentley in his usual spot, and they came up the stairs without haste.

When they entered the flat, Crowley's first move was to check on his plants. They were in perfect shape, which was fortunate, because he didn't think he could summon enough authority to punish them right now. Not in front of the angel. Aziraphale wouldn't be scared, he thought, but he wouldn't approve either, and lately Crowley found it very important for him to stay on the angel's good side.

He went into the kitchen to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of red wine without even thinking of it. When he came back he found Aziraphale standing in the middle of the room. The angel apparently didn't seem to know what to do with himself. Which was understandable. Crowley's flat wasn't what you would call cosy. A desk, a chair, a few paintings on the wall and too many terrified plants. The idea was not to make strangers feel welcome. It was supposed to be big and empty, sharp and difficult.

"I'm not sure I want to drink tonight." the angel said noticing the bottle Crowley was carrying.

"Oh." Crowley put the bottle with the glasses on the desk. He hadn't thought about it, but Aziraphale might have a point. "We won't drink, then. Have a sit."

It was what people said, but there wasn't much to sit on. Aziraphale eyed at the big chair with something like distaste in his eyes. It was too much, Crowley knew that. It was the whole point, he had purchased it to make fun of Heaven's airs of superiority and Hell's tasteless pride. A private joke, really, which would be awkward to explain. Even to Aziraphale. The demon regretted once more that his flat wasn't designed to receive guests. He could change it in a finger's snap, but wouldn't that be weird? Like admitting that he had somehow made a mistake? That he hadn't thought it through before inviting Aziraphale in? Suddenly it was very important, like a challenge, that they make do with what they had right now. If they found out a way to make it work right there, all would be fine.

"What about you? Where are you going to sit?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley opened his mouth before he knew what to say. Then, he naturally jumped on the desk.

"There," he said, "I'm all set."

The angel racked an amused smile. "Well, in that case, I think I'd rather..." and he sat on the desk next to the demon. Crowley grinned, a bit surprised. They were side by side, the bottle and glasses forgotten at the end of the desk and with nothing to do other than look at the huge red chair in front of them.

"My apologies if I'm being rude, but that chair is really awful," Aziraphale said.

"I know."

"It is so ridiculously much. Everything about it is too much. There's no creature on Earth who could sit in it and not look... ridiculously pompous."

"Yes. That's the point."

"Oh." The angel tilted his head, and giggled. "I see."

Crowley grinned. Someone was able to get it, finally.

"Want to try it?"

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Try it? No. No, I'd rather not."

"Come on! It's fun, you'll see!"

It might be necessary to explain what was going on under the surface there. Crowley's regal chair was more of a throne, to be honest, all deep reds and golds, gigantic, over-the-top. Crowley liked to think it was ironic, but angels were supposed to be humble at their very core, and weren't used to satire. To Aziraphale, the mere idea of sitting in a chair like that felt like blasphemy. Now they had no sides anymore, Crowley thought that maybe Aziraphale could loosen up a little. He wouldn't have push, not too hard anyway. But, to his greatest pleasure, the angel's recent curiosity resurfaced again.

"I guess it _is_ just a chair..." Aziraphale said fidgetting hesitantly.

"That's the spirit!" Crowley cheered. "Who would even care?"

The angel stepped down from the desk, and, ever so slowly, sat in the big chair, hands on the armrests, eyes wide open and stiff in his posture. After a moment, he relaxed and a smug grin appeared on his face.

"I think I like it."

"Told you it was fun."

"Now it's your turn."

"What?"

"Well I did what you wanted! It's your chair. I want to see how you look in it and not be the only one making a fool of myself, for a change."

Crowley rolled his eyes but agreed to switch places. They were both having fun and he could not think of a reason to end it. He made a show of sitting in his chair, taking ridiculous poses and waggling his eyebrows. Aziraphale was laughing until his face suddenly fell.

"Too much, wasn't it?" Crowley said with the beginning of concern.

"No that's not..." Aziraphale was blushing already. "I'm so sorry my dear, it's just that you're... you're very handsome."

Silence again. Crowley had had time to prepare for another declaration of the sort, but it still took him by surprise. Before he could get a hold on himself, Aziraphale was showering him with apologies.

"I'm incorrigible, I swore I wouldn't again, and... I can't help it, I'm sorry, Crowley-"

"Angel, calm down. I don't mind." the demon said sitting comfortably in his too big chair. He wasn't relaxed himself, but he wasn't afraid either, so he tried to play it cool. Everything would be alright if he could just keep calm.

The angel seemed to register what he had said.

"You don't?"

Crowley shrugged his shoulders. "Nope. In fact, if you wanted to try something now, I wouldn't be against it."

It took a few moments for Aziraphale to wrap his mind around the new information, which gave time for Crowley to compose himself and prepare for whatever was coming next. Both of them half wished that the other would shy away, because it seemed too big, too new, and it would take much effort to not mess it up. But at the same time, they both longed to break the tension and be done with it. When Aziraphale agreed to try, Crowley stood up and took a step closer to the desk.

"Tell me what to do," he told Aziraphale.

"May I take off your glasses?"

Crowley nodded and braced himself. When Aziraphale, oh so softly, finally took them off, his yellow eyes were confident, open and casual, as planned. The angel smiled.

"Like what you see?" the demon asked with the tiniest hint of bravado.

"Very much so."

"What do you want?"

"I... Please touch me." The angel's voice was so low, like the question from the smallest, shyiest, most fragile creature on earth.

Crowley wanted to ask "where?", but the angel seemed so embarrassed already, he didn't want to scare him by forcing him to talk. The question would have been genuine, because he had absolutely no idea what he was doing and would have appreciate some advice. To be honest, he had an idea of what might be in store, even if he lacked the practical experience. It was a demon's duty to be familiar with all of the humans' sins, so he had made some research over the ages. He had some notions of what they could do, but what precisely and how to get there and how fast, those were important aspects that he couldn't decide alone. He had sworn to himself that he would never impose anything on Azirapale, but he couldn't guess what the angel wanted. He needed imput.

"I'm going to touch you," he warned, "if anything's wrong, you tell me, ok?"

The angel nodded, and Crowley put his hands on the other's knees. Aziraphale inhaled sharply and Crowley paused to ask if it was alright, resuming when the angel nodded. From there he let his hands come up the angel thighs, press his hips, caress his belly and chest through layers of clothes. Aziraphale was signifying his satisfaction with rushed breaths and sometimes tiny moans of pleasure, and Crowley was enjoying it far more than he would have thought. He hadn't much to do, it seemed, to please the angel; maybe it was because it was a first try, all new and exciting. He felt giddy and bold, and found his finger sneaking between two buttons of the angel's shirt.

"I could take your clothes off." he said with a sly grin at his friend.

Aziraphale's face darkened ten shades of red.

"Please, no." he mumbled.

Crowley let the button go immediately. "Alright, sorry. I won't." He remain still for a few seconds, wondering what to do next, but the angel's plea to keep what he had been doing put him back on track. His fingers found a way down, to the angel's belt, and Crowley stopped a moment there to test the water.

"Do you want me to?"

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley continued his exploration. He wasn't long to find the hard bulge that was showing through the trousers. The angel gasped when he touched it.

"Too much?" he asked.

"No, no please, don't stop." The angel was blushing again and Crowley tried to hide his smile. Aziraphale mustn't think he was making fun of him. Even if it was very much fun. Just, not in that way.

They quickly found that they weren't in the best position for such manoeuvers, and Crowley's hesitant touches soon became frustrating for them both. Words were exchanged to find a better situation, and after a few adjustements, Aziraphale hid his head in Crowley's neck while the demon slipped a hand in the angel's underwear. He tried his best to do it right, but it was harder than it looked; maybe the angle wasn't right, or he didn't grip it as he should. Soon his hand began to tire, but he kept going, taking pride in the muffled sounds Aziraphale made against him. Something in the angel's voice changed, and Crowley wondered if it meant he would come soon. He tried to move his hand a bit faster, a bit harder, and soon enough he felt the angel's cock pulse and spill all over his hand as Aziraphale gripped his shirt and cried something inarticulate near his ear. Crowley was astounded. It was gross, and messy, and fucking glorious. He tried to look at Aziraphale, who was still hiding in his neck and gripping his clothes.

"Angel?"

"Hm."

"You keep hiding your face."

"Well, yes, I am. I... feel very embarrassed."

"And why is that?" the demon asked playfully.

"Because... I feel... undignified. I was rather loud. I can't believe I... I... well, you know, all over your hand."

Crowley had half a mind to lick his hand, just to see the angel's reaction, but decided it was probably way too soon. Instead, he cleaned them up with a snap of his fingers and took his hand off the pants.

"Oh, that. It's not supposed to be clean, you know ?"

Aziraphale knew that very well, but it was a different thing to know it and to experience it first hand. He couldn't stay against Crowley forever, though, especially if the demon kept breathing in his hair like that, so, after a little while, Aziraphale sat back on the desk and tried to regain some composure. Crowley was still there, reasonably close, with a glint in his yellow eyes the angel couldn't quite place.

"So how was it?" the demon asked.

"Very pleasant. Thank you."

Crowley shrugged like it was nothing and Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so flushed. There was something the angel had to say, as embarrassing as it was, it seemed a matter of basic decency.

"Would you like... for me to return the favor?"

A flash of surprise showed on the demon's eyes, before he returned to an easy expression.

"Nah, don't worry about that."

Aziraphale felt a mixed bag of relief and disappointement.

"Oh. Well. Maybe another time? I mean, if you want there to be other times."

Aziraphale would rather like it if there were other times. He was too shy to say it directly, and hoped that Crowley would hear it in his voice. The demon was really perceptive, so there was a chance.

"Maybe another time."


	3. Will It Last?

Chapter 3: Will It Last?

After all we've been through, let's drop pretense and assume that we're definitely intrusive and curious about an angel's and a demon's sex life. Sorry not sorry; now we can go on.

It had been some months since their first try at intercourse, and there had been a second try, and a third, a fourth and so on. Mostly, it had been the same. When Aziraphale was having urges, Crowley proposed to do something about it; the angel agreed and let the demon work him through to completion. It was another kind of arrangement, more or less satisfying for both sides. Aziraphale wasn't completely at ease with his own desires, and it was quite comfortable to not be the one to ask, or to do anything, really, and just let someone else take care of him. Crowley liked to be in control, and found the angel's pleasure rewarding enough to not think about what he wanted for himself (he was just that nice of a demon, you know, leaning a hand when needed). So he made Aziraphale moan and cry, he made him come, with his hand and a couple of times with his mouth, touched him everywhere the angel wanted him to, and rejoiced in the utter trust and abandon the angel let himself fall into. And he stepped back every time Aziraphale made a move on him, deflected any attempt by the angel to reciprocate, saying that wasn't what he was interested in. Crowley was very happy with the new arrangement.

Aziraphale had mixed feelings about it. He wondered what Crowley thought or felt about what they were doing. He feared the situation was exactly what he had wanted to avoid: imposing his desires on his friend, who just liked him too much to say no. He wished that Crowley would enjoy what they were doing in the same ways Aziraphale did, because in that case he wouldn't have doubts, but felt terribly selfish for wanting it. He didn't trust that the demon wouldn't do anything he didn't want. He wasn't able to simply accept what his friend was willing to give, and felt terrible about it. He was confused and couldn't always distinguish his worries about his friend's well-being from his own selfish desires. And he was very ashamed that he was enjoying the sex so much that most of the time he forgot about all that.

This was a little too much for one little angel. Angels weren't wired to feel bad about themselves, or about anything, really. Even for Aziraphale, this was new. It was like they had traded places: Crowley was for once the one to trying to maintain the status quo, leaving Aziraphale in bad places. In wanting to make things easier for them both, the demon had succeded in the opposite (they do have a saying about hell and good intentions). For once, Aziraphale needed to talk about it.

And who would be a better confident than the human he had shared a body with (and who happened to be a retired professionnal)?

Aziraphale preferred to meet Madame Tracy at his place than at hers. The presence of Shadwell in the bungalow was a strong argument, of course, but the angel was just generally more comfortable at home, and wasn't always thoughtful of others' preferences. To compensate, he liked to be a good host, so when Madame Tracy came and visited him, he always had fresh pastries from London's best French bakery, a kettle ready with his finest tea, and a carefully chosen wine bottle just in case. His shop was impeccable, closed for the day, and he had plumped the cushions up. It was just so agreable and amusing to share all of his little human habits with an actual human, the angel never tired of it. And their quite uncommon first meeting made it all the more interesting. They both had had a few glimpses of each other's mind and memories, so it really felt like they had known each other forever.

The doorbell rang and Aziraphale opened the door. For a moment they just beamed at each other, and got to the backroom after a while. Aziraphale made his friend sit and brought the tea and pastries.

"You're spoiling me again, my dear," Madame Tracy said with a shy fidgeting that must have made her very popular in her younger years, "I'm not sure it's reasonable."

"Nonsense," Aziraphale replied easily, "You are gorgeous, as ever."

She smiled like a five-year-old girl in a candystore and took a bite of the offered _religieuse_.

"So, how was your trip?"

It was kind of a ritual thing: Madame Tracy hesitated before eating the pastry, Aziraphale asked her about her trip, then about Shadwell, and then she asked him about Crowley. The trip was always fine, Shadwell was always "mostly himself", and Crowley was always peachy. Then they would talk about anything and everything, mostly the weather, the food, their respective homes, books they had read and sometimes a peculiar anecdote from memories they had shared made them laugh. Madame Tracy knew all about Gabriel's poor attempts at being inconspicous when he came on earth, for example, and Aziraphale had learned about all Madame Tracy's acts as a medium. They both found it exquisitely funny.

This time however, Aziraphale had a very pressing topic on his mind. So, when Madame Tracy asked about Crowley, he wasn't able to wait very long after his usual answer to add:

"Actually, we're... intimate, now."

"Is that so?" the woman said, ever-so-polite, "It is recent, if I understand correctly?"

If by "recent", she'd meant "about god-damned time", no one would ever know.

"Three months and a couple of weeks," the angel answered with a blush.

"I'm very happy for you two. If I dare say, I sort of saw it coming."

"You did?"

Madame Tracy didn't answer, she just smiled at him very gently, and Aziraphale felt suddenly stupid for asking, and very grateful that she was too kind to point it out. Neither said a word for a while, and Aziraphale began to feel nervous.

"Would it be... I am not very accustomed to this kind of matter, but... I guess it wouldn't be very proper of me if I wanted to... talk about it. I mean... the details."

"I guess it wouldn't," Madame Tracy said with a guarded expression. And then, with the same knowing smile that made her look so young. "But do tell me, dear. With all the naughty bits if you like. You can't shock me."

So Aziraphale did, naughty bits and all, all smiling and blushing, and Madame Tracy listened. He shared with her his joy, his pleasures, and also his worries.

"He always says that he's fine, but he never tells me what he wants, and sometimes I doubt that he even likes what we're doing."

"That's thoughtful of you, dear. I know a lot of men who would be very happy with your situation and wouldn't care at all."

"But I don't feel thoughtful! I feel like a terrible person." He hadn't said "angel", because none of it was very angelic. He was too anxious to notice the slip.

"Does Crowley knows that?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm too much of a coward. If I'm right, and he never wanted this, it would mean I was using him for my own pleasure all that time. Oh my, it is so much worst saying it out loud, I cannot continue like this, I cannot let him do that to himself..."

Madame Tracy took his hand gently. "Maybe it is not as bad as you think. But you have to talk to him or you'll never know."

"Yes, you're right. I hope I am not bothering you with all this."

"Don't worry dear," she replied. She didn't expand on it, but she wasn't bothered at all to hear Aziraphale's stories of himself and his demon. She found it very interesting, and a little exciting too. They were indeed two handsome young creatures (that's how she saw it at least, for as small her own life time had been compared to theirs, she knew very well that in certain areas, she was far more experienced, and their incarnations looked younger than her too), and she didn't mind the details at all. Compared to what she had known in her life and in her work, it was refreshing and kind of sexy, to be honest. And probably a nice change from what she had with Shadwell, but she was very secretive about that and we have close to zero informations about her most private thoughts about her own life.

They continued to talk the all through afternoon, and suddenly it was evening already and Crowley entered the shop.

"Angel, are you ready? Play's in thirty minutes."

And Aziraphale hadn't forgot, of course, he just had lost track of time. The demon found them in the backroom. He saluted Madame Tracy with a lowering of his sunglasses and a small nod, a habit she found rather charming. The old lady made her farewells, restrained herself from staring at the demon's handsome bottom, as tempting as it was, and left the bookshop to catch her train. As it happened every other time she had come, the train took her very safely home and without delays. She would still call in the morning to let them know she was safe (she knew about the little miracles the angel did for her, and found it so endearing she prefered to act as if she didn't know anything).

It was only a few days later (but what's a few days, for a 6000 years old creature?) that Aziraphale managed to gather enough strength to talk to Crowley. It was in the evening, and the demon had just very casually proposed a blowjob.

"Well, Crowley, about that..." the angel tried to begin.

"Oh, you don't like it? Should have said so, you know I don't mind."

"But that's the problem, dear, you never mind." And he quickly added, seeing he had vexed his friend: "I'm under the impression that what we do is for my sake and my sake only. It's always you giving me what I want."

"And you've got a problem with that?"

Aziraphale sighed. He had crossed him. Of course he had. He didn't want to fight with Crowley, but now he had begun to talk about it, there was no turning back. They had to make it right, they couldn't loose what they had built with so much difficulty.

"No, I... I like what we do. A lot. I admit I would like it even better if it was reciprocal, but-"

"Is that it, angel? What I give you isn't enough?"

"No, don't... Why do you have to twist everything... Let's forget about what _I_ want for a minute, alright? My problem is I am not sure _you_ like what we do."

"Well, didn't I tell you already?"

"No you didn't. You tell me you're fine, or you don't mind, or you're ok, but not that you like it. Not that you want it."

"I'm the one starting things every fucking time, what can I possibly do to convince you at this point?"

"But do you do it because you want to do that in particular, or for another reason?"

Crowley wouldn't answer, Aziraphale understood. Maybe he didn't know the answer, maybe he thought the answer wouldn't please him, maybe he had another reason altogether that Aziraphale couldn't guess, but he wasn't going to answer, and the angel felt suddenly tired and exposed.

"It is a very important question for me, Crowley. Because I really like having this with you, and I would love for it to continue, but sometimes it feels like I'm using you, and I can't do that. And if you don't want it, if it's not to your tastes, I promise you I will be fine. It doesn't matter. You're more important to me than some carnal satisfaction. Than anything, really."

Aziraphale wasn't expecting for the demon to crush him in his arms.

"Crowley?"

He wasn't sure what to do. Crowley had his arms around his chest and was holding really tightly, his face in the angel shoulders. Aziraphale's own arms were hovering awkwardly in the air. He hesitated a bit before putting his hands on Crowley's back, which only caused him to be held even tighter.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Mrngh."

Aziraphale laughed softly and relaxed a little. This wasn't something they had ever done, and it was very nice. Very nice indeed. He closed his eyes firmly when his libido kicked in. This was really not the time. Crowley sensed his discomfort immediately and began to let him go.

"Please don't worry about that," said the angel reaffirming his own hold on his friend, "I'm quite comfortable like this."

"You are?" The demon's voice was so low it was almost a whisper.

"Yes."

Crowley let out a sigh and said shyly: "Could we lie down?"

"Sure, my dear."

They settled themselves on the couch and hugged for a long time. Enough for Azirpahle to feel Crowley's respiration calming so very slowly. He didn't notice at first, however, the demon's knee slithering between his legs. It was many minutes later, as Crowley's shifting began to arouse him, that he realised exactly the kind of position they were in.

"Er, Crowley, dear, I'm sorry, but you're-" And then they locked eyes as Crowley lifted his innocent gaze and Aziraphale understood. "You're doing it on purpose."

"Is it okay?"

"Actually, I think I would prefer to stay like that a little more, if you don't mind, my dear."

It passes so quickly the angel almost didn't catch it, but there it was, the tiniest hint of something in the lift of Crowley's eyebrowse. Aziraphale was transfixed.

"Something on my face, angel?"

"You're... you're disappointed," the angel simply said.

"Well, a little, but I'm pretty sure I'll survive."

"No, I mean... you actually want this."

Crowley widened his eyes in exasperation.

"Yes, I do! Why is it so hard for you to believe?"

"Well I can't be sure if you don't say it!"

Crowley opened his mouth to answer and found nothing to say. They both chuckled and relaxed, a bit exasperated but mostly relieved that the other finally got it. Crowley shifted against Aziraphale in a loosend embrace.

"So," Aziraphale tried to sum up, "You like to... do things to me, you just don't want me to do it to you."

"Alright with you?"

"Well of course, I want what you want. I'm quite content with what we already have."

A quick glimpse of insecurity passed in the demon's eyes.

"I'm not sure. Sometimes I think I'd like to try something, but I..."

Aziraphale waited for him to say more, but it didn't come.

"Maybe some time." the angel said. And this time, he was confident they would make it work. Whatever they would want, they would find a way.

Crowley let a low and relaxed chuckle pass his lips.

"Maybe some time."

It was a few days later, after three restaurant meetings (they didn't say it but they both thought of them as 'dates'), including one with crepes, and five enthusiastic sexual encounters, that Crowley's phone started ringing. The demon was in his flat, threatening his plants to balance his softening behavior.

He didn't know the number.

"Crowley," he answered the phone.

"Hello, this is Anathema."

"Oh, well, hello, I guess. What do you want?"

Crowley had many many qualities, but sociability and politeness weren't part of them. Anathema was quite blunt too in her own ways, and sometimes their two personalities blended well, cutting through etiquette and getting to the point saving a lot of time, but some other times, they just made each other worse. And as we will see, this was one of the other times.

"I need advice" the witch said.

"Oh for F- sake, it's about that boyfriend of yours, isn't it?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

"Why didn't you call Aziraphale instead? He wouldn't be of any help but at least he would have wanted to try."

"I don't think he would have told me what I needed to hear."

"What you nee- What does that even mean? And how did you get my number? Oh bollocks, nevermind... So, what do you need to hear? That your boyfriend is hopeless, that he doesn't deserve you and that he never will, that you would be better without him and, yes, it was a bloody fucking mistake to burn that book of prophecy? Is that what you need to hear?"

Anathema waited patiently on the other end of the phoneline. To say that Crowley's very agressive and angry responses didn't hurt her would be far from truth. It wasn't pleasant indeed, when you felt lost and lonely, to be reminded by one of the rare beings you actually related to that you didn't matter to them and that your soul-searching was annoying. But Anathema was somehow convinced that Crowley had an answer and she was prepared to bear the rest.

"Listen, bookgirl, I'm not sure why you thought I would have good advice for you. I don't know your relationship, and frankly, I don't really care. I'm the last person you'd want to- I'm not nice, you know..."

Anathema's chain of thought that had her led to call Crowley (after she had obtained the demon's number by the intercession of Madame Tracy who might or might not have asked her companion before searching in his 'work' contacts) had been relatively simple. She was in the middle of a life crisis and she couldn't talk about it to her mother or boyfriend who were part of the problem. At the same time, and she was fascinated by Crowley and Aziraphale's tries at a relationship, which never failed to make her feel bad about herself in comparison. And the demon seemed to understand some of what she was going through. So why not shoot two birds with one stone and talk about her life with the one who made her question it? She wasn't the most subtle witch there was, after all. Crowley didn't know any of that. He wasn't into human psychology enough to even begin to comprehend it on his own. It didn't matter, anyway, Anathema hadn't meant for him to know.

The young woman was silent on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Crowley thought she was crying. She wasn't, but somehow the fact she might be was more important.

"I'm a right asshole, ain't I?" the demon mumbled to himself. "Bookgirl?"

"Still here."

"Yeah, sorry for that. It was mean. I didn't... well maybe I did mean to... be mean. I really don't know what to say to you."

"You already said plenty," the young woman said. It wasn't ironic. She was just trying to keep the conversation going, as anyone would do, and she was used to getting overly pragmatic and down-to-earth when she felt overwhelmed. "I see it was not appropriate of me to ask you that. I'm sorry for overstepping. Thank you for your honest answer."

The phone call had gone more or less as she had planned, but she had not expected to feel so crushed in the process.

"Wait, bookg- Anathema!" Crowley said "You going to be alright?"

"Probably not. No need to worry."

"Maybe you need a break. Take a vacation somewhere, spend a little time without your Newt, and see from there what you really want."

Crowley was still fighting between the urge to be kind and the urge to not look like it. It was part survival reflex, part shyness, part his style. Hiding every good instinct behind a mean and distant facade does not make a good person, no matter how bad you feel on the inside. But strangely enough, in our modern Western society, kindness is often more valued when coming from the mean ones. Crowley had nothing to fear, he would always find someone to forgive him, and Anathema was already eager to forget his harsh words from earlier. Crowley wasn't really aware how eager humans were to forgive the unforgivable (even more so when it was a dashing white-skinned british demon), so he tried harder.

"You ever been to London? I'm sure Aziraphale would be thrilled to have you. We could play guides."

"I think I would like that."

It wouldn't be perfect, far from it. Aziraphale, however willing to be a good host, would probably be rather picky about his lifespace and habits. And Crowley would without a doubt alternate between awkward conviviality and shows of short temper. Neither of them would know how to balance their new intimacies in presence of somebody else. Anathema would always be either too inquisitive or too quiet, and the three of them would spend an awful lot of time wondering what normal humans would do. But none of them were normal humans, actually, and, all in all, they would probably have a great time.


End file.
